


Sense Memory (J is for Janet)

by supplyship



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Angst, Gen, h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-01
Updated: 2011-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-15 07:19:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/158406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supplyship/pseuds/supplyship
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-S6 "Abyss"; mild references to torture.<br/><i>You live through something enough times, it just might be real. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Sense Memory (J is for Janet)

**Author's Note:**

> My contribution to the 2008 Jack O'Neill Alphabet Soup challenge and SG-1 Gen Fic Day. *Sincere* thanks to a_loquita for the extremely helpful beta!

**Sight**

He could see the intense white light even though his eyes were closed. He scrunched them shut even tighter, knowing with absolute certainty that if he opened his eyes, he would be looking up through the open sarcophagus panels at Ba'al's smirking face.

A voice called to him, but he stubbornly refused to open his eyes.

"Colonel, it's okay, you're safe. You're back at the SGC," a familiar female voice reassured.

This was a trick. It had to be. If he opened his eyes, he would see Ba'al, and he couldn't, _he couldn't,_ not again…

"It's okay Colonel, just open your eyes and you'll see that it's okay."

But it would be much worse for him if he didn't open his eyes. Ba'al "rewarded" him when he kept his eyes open.

Basic self-preservation won out, and he slowly, slowly opened his eyes to see…Janet Frasier?

"See?" she said with a big smile. "Safe at home."

His vision blurred, but he could still make out the shape of her hand moving towards his face. "Colonel. Jack. Everything is going to be all right now."

He closed his eyes again and felt her wipe away his tears.

 

 **Sound**

He could hear them coming for him, the telltale clank, clank, clank of Jaffa boots. His body twitched involuntarily, in perfect time to the cadence.

"No…I can't go in there again," he mumbled. "Daniel, you have to end it…"

The clanking grew louder, closer, and stopped. They had come for him.

He waited for the shouted insults, the blows to the head that left his ears ringing. So he was surprised (and more than a little confused) when the only sound to reach his ears was the kind voice of Doctor Frasier.

"Hey, Colonel, can I get you anything?"

 

 **Smell**

He had all kinds of coping mechanisms to deal with being tortured, and ample opportunity to use them these days. He liked disassociation a lot. He was becoming adept at imagining that the whole thing was happening to someone else – stepping outside his body and watching as that other person had to deal with the beatings.

But the smell of the acid and the stink of his burning flesh – they kept breaking his focus, overpowering his nose and forcing him right back into the moment. Now he caught the sharp tang of blood and the smell of fear that permeated everything. His blood, his fear.

He wrinkled his nose in disgust – at himself and his at his lack of control.

And suddenly, his nose was overwhelmed by a new scent: something citrus-y and floral. The sensation was so incongruous to Ba'al's torture chamber that Jack gave up any pretense of meditation and opened his eyes to better understand what the snake's new game was.

His eyes focused in on a halo of auburn surrounding a familiar face. Janet Frasier was leaning over him, futzing with something. She quickly noticed his attention and straightened up: "Oh, sorry if I woke you, Colonel. I was just moving the IV pole closer."

He stared at her for a moment. Finally, with a voice hoarse from screaming he croaked out, "Doc, what perfume are you wearing?"

 

 **Taste**

"No. Not again! I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING!" the words, ripped from his throat, brought him back to consciousness. Then fear, desperation, and pain had him expelling the contents of his stomach. He tasted acid, fiery and bitter, soured even more by the copper of blood. It wouldn't be long before he felt the pain of it searing through his skin, his face, his brain…

A cool, damp cloth on his face, and then a straw at his lips: "Drink slowly, Colonel, just a little bit." The voice was so full of comfort that he hardly even cared that it was probably another Goa'uld trick. He drank, and cool water flooded his tongue, washing away the taste of terror.

 

 **Touch**

He spent days in a fog of pain and uncertainty, with all his systems out of whack and his senses feeding him false, remembered information.

But now he was finally back to himself. Mostly. Enough that the Doc was going to let him go home, anyway. He pulled on his standard black t-shirt and tucked it into his pants. It felt good – strange – to be wearing real clothes again, not infirmary scrubs and not bizarre Tok'ra sweaters. A knock sounded at the door as he grabbed his jacket from the chair.

Janet Frasier popped her head in to check his progress. "Oh good, you're dressed. Wanna hit the commissary before heading out?" she asked. "I suspect you don't have anything edible at your house."

He didn't answer, and she kept talking, moving over to check the latest readings on his chart, taken earlier in the morning. "I think your team is planning on doing a little grocery shopping for you this evening, and Cassie and I were going to bring you some of my famous lasagna-"

"Janet." He took two steps to her and pulled her into his arms. "Thank you," he said, "Thank you for bringing me back." And as he felt her arms come up to return the hug, he knew that he was home.


End file.
